based on a screenplay by Peter Purvis, Virginia Wade and the bloke who killed the Star Trek franchise until JJ Abrams revived it.

Chapter One: Retirement

The party was in full swing at Carlos Escobar's mansion. The revellers were too high on the lavish amounts of champagne that Escobar had provided - and the cocaine that had paid for it - to notice a wetsuited figure slip out of the lake nearby. He unzipped the wetsuit to reveal a hoodie and commando trousers underneath. A security guard spotted him and shouted something in Spanish. "Wot u looking at, wanker?" said the agent, and nutted the security guard. Unfortunately for James Bond, agent 007 of the British Secret Service, he had not noticed the camera pointing directly at him. Within seconds, he was surrounded by men waving machine guns. His expression changed momentarily to one of fear, then returned abruptly to its former impassive state, as the effort of moving his facial muscles caused them to cramp painfully. He pulled out a can of spinach from one of his pockets, squeezed it until the contents flew into the air, and then caught the spinach in his mouth, chewing it noisily. He ripped off the banister from a nearby staircase and beat the men to death with it. Then he sat down and wept. "Why did those men have to die? Why? Why", he intoned woodenly. Then, I think he blew up the drug baron's mansion, but it's hard to tell, because the editing rendered the scene incomprehensible.

Barbara Mawdsley took a deep breath and enjoyed the spring air. At last, the stale, cold fog of winter was over, replaced by warmer soggy fog of spring. It was to be her last quiet moment of the day. Recently promoted to the head of the analytical section of MI6, it was her job to evaluate probabalities, to add certainty, to take eliminate chance. Of course, she was resented by her male colleagues. It didn't matter. The meeting that would begin in less than an hour would be a critical one. People would likely die. She wanted to make sure the decision would be made in the clearest, more level-headed fashion. Her numbers would see to it.

Precisely 45 minutes later, M. began the meeting. He looked haggard and tired. His wrinkled, pale skin felt dry. He put the pipe down in the ash tray. M. felt old. How many times had he issued a termination warrant? Too many.

The Chief of Staff began, "Luis Silva controls a potent Soviet espionage ring. But he stays to himself. Rarely exposes himself to danger."

"We know all that," M said testily.

"He is currently believed to be staying in a villa in Switzerland," the Chief of Staff continued. "The best way to take him out is to send a team of 00s."

Mawdsley spoke up. "But innocent people could get killed!"

"Perhaps," the Chief of Staff replied. "But Silva is too dangerous to take chances."

"There is another way," Mawdsley said. "If he could be lured into the open, perhaps by somebody he has known in the past

"Who might that be?" asked M.

He once bought an insurance policy from a traveling salesman named Andrew Bond," she answered. "We've checked. He is planning to go skiing for the weekend in Switzerland with his wife Monique Delacroix Bond. If we could convince him to cooperate, he could lure Silva into the open."

"That's preposterous," the Chief of Staff said.

"There is an 86.4 percent probability of success, we have run the numbers."

M looked at the Chief of Staff, then at Mawdsley. God, he felt tired. He was past retirement age but he had held on because he felt a sense of duty. But the world was moving faster. Maybe it was finally time to retire.

"All right," M said. "We'll try it the way the Analytics Section wants to play it."

"You won't regret it," Mawdsley said.

"We'll see," M said. He looked at his watch. "now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to see the the matinee showing of Moonraker.".

He took the path to M's office, or at least the path he thought he remembered. He spat out an obscenity. M must have redecorated MI6 headquarters, yet again, while he had been on the mission. Well, he thought to himself, that wasn't going to matter. Not this time.

After 15 minutes of wandering he finally found the reception area to M's office. There, he found Vanessa, M's assistant, looking intently at her computer screen as she typed rapidly.

"I'm here to see M," Bond said.

Vanessa didn't look up from her screen and continued to type.

The glassy eyes stared at her for moment. "I said, I'm here to see M!" he said, louder this time.

"So you said," Vanessa said, continuing to type. She'd be damned if she was going to let this 00 push her around.

Vanessa refused to look at the glassy eyed assassin. The term around the office was "blunt instrument." To Vanessa, that was charitable.

"You hear her. Go on in."

Bond began to head to what he thought was the entryway until he realized it was the closet door. He spat out another obscenity and began to wonder how many times M was going to redecorate MI6 headquarters. "Soon, it won't be my problem," Bond thought to himself.

As 007 entered the main office, M studied papers on her desk, not looking up. "What is it?" she asked.

"I quit," Bond said.

M still studied the papers on her desk. "What is it this time?"

"Do you what it's like to kill somebody, M?"

"You know very well I haven't." Still, she didn't look up.

"It corrodes your soul," the glassy eyed man said, no hint of expression on his craggy face. "You're diminished every time it occurs."

M finally looked up, taking off her reading glasses as she did so. "So you've mentioned -- a number of times in the past."

"It's different this time," Bond said, still not a hint of emotion on his face. "I resign -- effective immediately."

There was a hint of irritation on M's face. Once, she was known as Barbara Mawdsley. To a few close friends, plus her clueless husband, she still was. But not in this office. Not in a moment like this.

Bond reached into the breast pocket of the suitcoat of his Tom Ford (R) three-piece suit and extracted a neatly folded piece of paper from the breast pocket. He tossed it on the desk in front of M.

M frowned and reached for the paper. She put the reading glasses back on and scanned the document.

"You're not serious."

"I am," Bond said, this time there was a hint of a grin before the facial muscles protested. "My resignation is effective immediately."

M rose from her desk. "I knew I couldn't trust you -- just like that Casino Royale assignment in '06."

Bond was puzzled. "What do you mean, '06? It was in '08."

M shook her head. "No, it was 2006!"

"Couldn't have been," Bond replied. "I captured Mr. White and took him to Italy. It was 2008. It was only two hours after the Casino Royale matter had been resolved. Plus, you had redecorated all of the MI6 bloody headquarters and bought Mathis a villa to make him forget we tortured him! You'd have to be a bloody idiot to think all that happened two hours after the conclusion of the Casino Royale assignment!"

M's face reddened. "You're a bloody fool! Get out of this office!"

Bond stared back at her with his glassy eyes. "Gladly."

Bond turned and walked out of the office, refusing to look back at the most important woman of his life, save his mother who had perished 33 years earlier.

Barbara Mawdsley strained to look up at the tall Scotsman walking besides her London.

"I don't know Barbara, this sounds potentially dangerous," Andrew Bond said. "I used to dabble in that sort of thing..." it came out "short of thing" with the Scotish accent "...before I settled down."

"Andrew, you're the one person we know who could get to Luis Silva, make him come out," she replied.

"Because I sold him an insurance policy once?" Andrew Bond asked. "That's hardly a deep friendship."

"Your country needs you."

"My country? If it were up to me, Scotland would be independent." It came out Schotland with the accent.

Mawdsley looked at the face. Andrew Bond was pushing 50 and had gone bald. That hardly mattered. He still dark handsome, with large eyebrows and brown eyes that could stare into your soul.

"You've seen the file, you know how dangerous the man is, to Britain or Scotland."

"I didn't ask to see that bloody file, you thrust it upon me," the middle aged man said.

He stopped walking for a moment, glanced to the side and took a deep breath. "I suppose there's no point in arguing. All right, I'll have to do it. Monique and I were planning a holiday in that vicinity -- something you probably knew already."

Mawdsley said nothing. The two resumed walking.

***

Andrew Bond and Monique Delacroix Bond were a striking couple. As they approached the cafe in Geneva, occasionally men and women stopped, if only for a moment. He was quite tall, at least an inch or two over six feet. In recent years, he had grown a mustache and it had given him a distinguished look. She looked like a beauty pageant winner who, now in middle age, was still striking, with her dark hair and fine cheekbones.

Silva looked at the expression on Andrew Bond's face. Whatever it was it wasn't pride.

Before another word could be uttered, gun fire range out. Silva's three large men had their Browning semi-automatics out and were fiing out into the street at a group of plainclothes security men.

"You!" Silva yelled at Andrew. "This is a trap!" Silva sprung from his chair, taking out his own Browning as he did so. Andrew lunged at Silva, but he was already firing shots into Monique. One. Two. Three shots in rapid succession.

Andrew Bond now has his hands on Silva's throat. Silva was already turning blue but still managed to turn the gun at the Scotsman. Another three shots rang out before the gun clicked empty. Still the force did not lessen on Silva's throat. Silva collapsed to the floor, Andrew Bond on stop of him, still grasping at the throat. The life exited from Silva, leaving only a husk. Andrew Bond rolled to the side and found he couldn't get off the floor. He glanced over to Monique, laying face up, the lifeless eyes open. Bond then looked at himself. His clothes were staining in blood.

"What a stupid way to die," Andrew said. And then he, too, was dead.

***

Barbara Mawdsley was sent into M's office by the secretary. As she entered she could see M, sitting at his desk, looking out the window. He said nothing for a moment, then turned around.

"Sit down."

Mawdsley sat uncomfortably. "I suppose you want my resignation."

M stared at her. Seconds passed. Mawdsley's throat went dry.

"Not quite."

Mawdsley bit her lip. "There was no way to anticipate that chance encounter, a full 24 hours before they were scheduled to meet."

M chuckled. "What's the matter? Did that throw your numbers off?"

M rose from his desk and continued to speak. "The security men shadowing the Bonds were under orders to secure Silva," he said. "When Silva's bodyguards began to fire, they had no other choice but to respond."

Mawdsley stared at M.

"Too bad for the Bonds," M said, sitting back at his desk. "Not for your career, though."

Mawdsley looked puzzled. "I don't follow."

M cleared his throat. "The only one who's retiring is myself. It appears the P.M. believes the plan still succeeded quite well. A threat has been removed and, even if it came at a cost..." M's voice trailed off.

"I, however, know better. The P.M. didn't want to hear it. So, I'm tendering my resignation. It was time to go, anyway. Effective Monday, Admiral Hargreaves will be the new M. And you're getting promoted to be his deputy. The P.M. wouldn't have it any other way."

M leaned back in his chair. "Your career, it seems is on the rise," he said. "As for the Bonds...well, officially they died in a mountain-climbing accident."

"I don't know what to say," she replied.

"Don't say anything, just leave."

Mawdsley looked at him for a moment, got up and exited.

M didn't see her go out the door. Instead, he looked down on his desk. There were two small photographs, one of a dark, handsome boy. The other was of a blonde-haired one with glassy eyes and an already craggy face.

"Two orphans," M said to himself.

M passed away two years later. He would not witness the results of what had been set in motion by Barbara Mawdsley's plan.

The red light on the surveillance camera blinked steadily, it was a bulky old thing positioned over the chicken enclosure where hundreds of white birds clucked happily in the sun drench yard scratching up their morning feast.

Thwapt.

A dull sound broke through the pleasant sounds of the picturesque English countryside surrounding Stavro’s Organic Chicken Farm.

‘BOND! You Bas***d!’ bellowed old man Ernst Stavro. The short dark haired Albanian man rushed out of the farm house.

‘What the hell is wrong with you??? You shot a chicken!’ Bond had noticed “Ernst” could speak perfect English when he was well good and angry.

Bond was in his favourite blue trunks standing in a plastic kiddie pool slowly filling from a garden hose. A silenced automatic pistol in one hand a drink in the other, Bond slowly wobbled.

Now face to face the little Albanian towered over Bond.

‘d**n it man! Where are your pants?!’ the thick accent returning now.

Bond shrugged indifferently. What did trousers matter when he was hollow on the inside? What did anything matter when death was his only, constant, companion. Why did that chicken have to die? The question haunted him.

‘Where did you get this?’ The angry little man tore the gun from Bond’s hand. There was a time not nine months ago where Bond would have beaten a man senseless for less, now trouserless and directionless he took a slug of the drink in hand. Nothing to believe in his dark thoughts crept back, I’ll have to toss that bird’s carcase in the dumpster before the flies begin gather Bond mused.

Really! This was news to Bond. Then who the hells house did I break into last night he wondered.

‘What’s this?’ Ernest kicked at the kiddie pool ‘are you stealing water from the chickens?!’ an angry tenor developing.

‘err you see .. No Sir. I’ll reconnect the water right away.’ whatever gave Bond the idea of stockpiling water he’ll never know. It was a stupid idea from beginning to end.

‘See that you do.’ Ernst tried desperately to remember why had given sanctuary to this chave. Now looking closely at Bond's face he noticed nearly a dozen small scratches all over Bond’s craggy continence.

‘What happened to your face? It did not look this way yesterday.’

Bond’s mind raced he needed to divert the conversation; he desperately did not want to admit to the fight he lost last night when he stumbled across a sleeping rooster. Little Bas***d fought like demon Bond thought. Adding insult to injury the cockerel had a certain triumphal glee to his crowing this morning. Better come clean Bond decided.

‘Um..sir there is something else I feel I should tell you. To my shame there has been...errr... certain indiscretions between me and your good wife.’

‘What?’ a dumbfound exasperation fills Ernst’s voice.

‘I slept with your wife sir.’

Ernst shook head dismissively, he knew his wife hated having the maniac on the farm. He pointed back to the house where his wife (an attractive woman) and three boisterous children were loading gear for a day at the beach into the families people carrier.

‘That is my wife up there. Are you telling me you had relations with her?’ Ernst asked his tone growing more sympathetic. Bond struggled to focus on the woman.

‘No sir. It must have been you ex-wife then. Barbara.’

‘Barbara.’ Ernst said flatly. ‘Barbara is the crazy woman who lives wild in Thunderball woods. She bankrupted her family’s fortune on some insane idea about filming parkour for profit. She’s gone wild in the woods living off of berries and squirrels ever since. You know all this.’

‘Righttt?’ Bond said slowly recalling the details. It certainly explained the twigs in the matted tangled hair and the squirrel pelts they made love on. In fact now he thought about she had reminded him of Latrine from Mel Brooks Robin Hood. Why in Gods green earth did I agree to sell her a kiss his mind rebuked.

Ernst felt a certain amount compassion for Bond. He was certain Bond had some sort of traumatic brain injury. Life, reflected Enrst has been usually hard on Bond. He was ten years Ernst’s junior, thirtyfive, yet Bond looked twenty years his senior. Bond had once opened up to Ernst telling him about his old boss (M) a woman who constantly nagged and distrusted him to do the simplest thing. And of his first romance, the first girl he kissed killed herself in an elevator because she was being blackmailed by her no good druggy wannabe pimp ex-boyfriend who was living in Russia at the time. Bond said he eventually confronted the scoundrel in a bleak Russian tenement and just walked away. All of this had moved Ernst until he happened to catch the Bourne series on the telly. The realization stuck him hard; it wasn’t "James Bond’s" life Bond was describing, it was Jason Bourne’s. Oh what a sad sorry hard luck case Bond must be to seek comfort from such a dreary piece of fiction.

‘Look, just clean all this up and take the rest of the day off. It’s a holiday, relax. We are.’ Ernst tried to shake off all his frustration with Bond, now I know how that “M” lady felt he thought. ‘Bury this poor bird with the others you "accidentally" killed and we’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Bury, Sir?’ Bond saw his plan to dump the body and nip off to the pub dissolving before his eyes.

‘Yes. Bury. Bond these chickens are our friends, we take care of them and they take care of us by giving us eggs. You wouldn’t throw the body of your friend in a dumpster would you?’

‘Course not’ Bond lied.

‘Good. See you tomorrow then.’

‘Yes sir. Have a nice day sir.’

By the time Bond had finished he was exhausted. He decided against exercising on his gym set up outside his periwinkle caravan. He usually worked out for three hours or more a day now his license for the MI6 gym was revoked. He would have liked to take the silver car he won in a card game six years ago for a drive in the country, however he could no longer afford to license and insure the classic Aston Martin, not on his pension. And not after spending his entire life savings to convert the car from right hand to left hand drive, or was it the other way round. Didn’t matter he thought, the car only reminded him how futile all life was anyhow. So it sat on blocks behind his rented caravan, draped in depressing gray car cover.

Instead Bond went inside and threw himself in his barcalounger flipping through the channels hoping to find a movie marathon. Where did it all go wrong? Was it when Mommy and Daddy fell from the sky? Yes, maybe. Why did they have to fall? His mind pleaded for the answer. Eventually Bond fell asleep this lazy afternoon watching a rerun of Moonraker. God do I love this movie he thought. Escapism, that is what I need. An escape from the daily grind of this dreary life.

He fell asleep thinking he would have ‘nutted the tall Bas***d with the freaky teeth’.

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

Charmian Bond stared blankly over the bleak “Scottish” landscape, her brothers funeral had brought her home, not that this place had ever been much of a home to her. She supposed this would change now that the family seat was her responsibility alone.

James, Andrew and Moniques only child was another matter, a crag of face and a gangly body to match. Just going through an awkward phase? A grimace shuddered through her body, a face only a mother could love. But that wasn’t true was it; she recalled the revulsion on Monique’s face when she held young James close to her. Poor Andrew tried to put the best face on it, ‘he’ll grow out of it’ he had said. Not bloody likely Charmian thought looking at the boy. Slowly she became aware of a figure lurking in her peripheral vision, she turned to find a old family friend.‘Oh! Admiral, thank you so much for coming.‘

'Please call me Miles my dear.’ A sad smile came to the old Admiral's face. She and Andrew had always insisted on calling him 'Admiral' no matter how many times he asked both for less formality. Admiral Sir Miles Messervy reached out and gently took Miss Bond’s hand in comfort.

‘Tell me that awful Mawdsley was dismissed out right!’

Why thought M am I not surprised at Miss Bond’s resourcefulness. He should have known she could dig out the truth if she set her mind to it. Andrew had mentioned one of his best assets was his sister Charmian, quick, intelligent, and beguiling when she chose to be. The Bond siblings, brother and sister both could move fluidly through almost any circle, at home in any social group. Natural born operators, and solely motivated by love of country, they live up to the family’s motto in spades thought M.

‘No I’m afraid my days at that desk are coming to a close.’

‘NO!’ the shock resonating in her voice, ‘and that Mawdsley? The fruit of her incompetence takes the lives of those closest to me and nothing happens to her!’ she spat.

‘I’m afraid it is rather a case of failing upwards. The brass have their eyes on her, she is marked for great things. And I’m afraid am viewed as rather an old dinosaur. Time to ship me off before fossilisation sets in.’ He let out a brief self-effacing chuckle.

‘So my brother dies for nothing!’ Said Charmian the anger burning in her eyes.

‘Now my dear I am certain this will not be the case. Though we cannot see the creators grand design we can trust in it. Andrew and Monique will have their day, I know it.’

Charmian squeezed M‘s hand harder as the tears she fought to hold back began to flow. M pulled her closer to let her cry away the shrieking hollowness of the loss. She’s not too far from a daughter to me he thought, all of the Bonds are like my own children, damned shame lose two so dear to me on such a careless gambit. A tear came to M’s eye.

‘Miles?’ Charmain’s red eyes looked up in a pleading manner ‘If I could find out the truth others can.’ M knew the incinerators at Whitehall were running over time to dispose of the official record. Still he couldn’t help but recognise the truth in Charmian’s deductions. He nodded his agreement.

‘I’m afraid.‘ she said ‘I’m afraid when England faces the consequences for these careless actions, and others to surely follow with that woman in charge, we will be unprepared for the disaster to follow.’

In M’s minds eye he would see the two boys affected so directly by this failed operation growing off into the future, a future altered this day standing before their fathers premature graves. One certainly destine for the Circus side show, the other; handsome, motivated, now left with almost unlimited resources, he could be a villain or a hero given right conditions.

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

Severine opened her eyes. She had dozed off no more than 10 minutes, yet Raoul Silva was fully dressed and tying his necktie, looking intently at the full-length mirror.

She looked at the dark, ruggedly handsome face. The man was like his lovemaking: passionate and energetic. But there was something else in him, a dark side that appealed to her own. Before she nodded off, Silva had seemed spent. Now, he stood tall and erect, wearing a designer suit. Something was about to happen, Severine thought. Silva had occasionally mentioned something he was working on. No details, no real hint.

As he completed tying the necktie, Silva turned toward the naked woman in the bed. "Ah, my dear," he said as he walked back toward her. He bent over and kissed her once. Severine could feel the time for romance, or at least what passed for romance, was over.

"Business?" she asked.

"Yes, I have matters to which I must attend," he replied. "And so do you."

"Oh?"

"I need you to take a little trip."

"How little a trip," Severine asked.

"To Shanghai," Silva replied. "Consider it courier duty."

"I see."

"I'll tell you more later."

"Of course."

Severine got up from the bed, still naked, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. A few seconds later, Silva could hear the shower starting. He turned, and exited the bedroom swiftly and took the stairway down to his study. Another man awaited, sitting in a chair in front of a desk..

Silva didn't engage in any pleasantries. "Status?" he asked as he secured the door behind him.

"Personnel secured as are supplies. It was....well, quite an outlay."

"Well, my dear Patrice," Silva said as he sat down behind the desk, "if you want quality, it always costs a bit more."

"In that case, the quality should be top notch."

"I'm counting on that."

Patrice cleared his throat. "I'm still not sure why."

Silva's face turned solemn. "There are some things you should not probe too deeply into," he replied coldly. "Let us merely say this is something I've been working toward for a long time -- a very long time."

Patrice could feel the blood drain out of his face.

Suddenly, Silva's mood lightened up. "In any event, I would say it's time for Operation Skyfall to begin." With that, both men rose from their chairs and departed the room.

d**n War Games! thought the young constable as he made his rounds, isn’t there enough real war for these yobbos to get their rocks off on? Why do I have to come in on my Saturday off so they can get a gold star next to their names. And why is it we never win these things he wondered. Cheaters! Had to be! These guys never play by the same rules as the rest of us. These thoughts drifted away as the constable slows his pace thinking he saw movement in the shadows of the service tunnel entrance. His heart begins to race as the adrenalin hits. This was it! He found one of them! Silly blighter thought he could hide in the shadows. The constable reached for the radio pinned smartly to the upper corner of his uniform shirt. Wham! He hit the pavement hard as his legs were cut out from under him, stunned from the impact he was dragged into the sewer. Feeling the beginnings of road rash he cursed wearing his Bermuda shorts today. Soon in the darkness of the dry sewer tunnel beneath the storm drain he made the mistake of stopping too close to, he found out he was right these guys do cheat, but this was a cheat he found himself willing to help with.

‘Say that again!’ M demanded her old face pitched up in consternation turning to rage.

‘Yes ma'am, confirming ten fatalities mum. ‘ a static voice carried over the internet connection on M’s high-tech desktop in MI6 headquarters London. ‘The bodies are on a transport back to England now.’

‘How?’ she asked ‘how is this possible?’

Bill Tanners poised professional voice took over the briefing. In M’s office the displays light up in colourful presentation of the facts gathered from a mix of the real time monitoring, satellite views, surveillance cameras, and computer animation recreating the rest.

‘Let us being at the beginning: At 08:30 this morning Operation: Live and Let Die commenced. You can follow the overall timeline on your monitors,’ his words and tone used here were to indicate to M the higher-ups were paying close attention to this.

Bill’s briefing was detailed and tedious. The facts where these; the team jumped on target and on time. All shoots deployed properly and the specially assigned landing zones scatted throughout the operations arena were properly met. ‘Above and beyond expectations’ Bill added highlighting the professionalism of his fallen colleagues.

‘Now here is where the story twists moments after each of our agents landed they were ambushed at the designated insertion sites. The execution methods varied, in an astounding coincidence each of our agents were kill in the exact method we had sanction for removal of enemy operatives over the last two years.’

Hush tones murmured over the conference line. Revenge killings was the word at the tip of everybody’s tongue. The display shifted to show the computer renderings of the deaths of agents 1 – 10, Bill slowed the as the approached the death of agent 7.

‘Up to this point none of the killers or killings appears on our surveillance, they knew where we were set up and where we could see. The only variation was this, we can see agent 7 comes down directly on target then suddenly diverts, agent 7 obviously saw something that raised alarm, sadly the last minute change of course only led to being tangled in a tree. Where we see here the agent is shot twice, our experts think perhaps the second shot was deflected by the parachute rigging, however there is no doubt this agent died.’ As if to emphasise this point the video feed shows a shadowy figure approached the agent to check. The video pauses as Bill speaks up, ‘this is the only glimpse we have of the assailants, and it is no more than a few seconds at extreme distance. After the last agent is executed we lose all contact and all surveillance is cut off, including over head satellite.’

After fielding questions for another ten minutes Bill frees himself to meet with M in her newly redecorated office.

Sitting alone M’s mind reeled with the numbers, outside of plan crash the odds of fatalities like these even for her section were astronomical. Analysing the facts, death by death, the methods used, the tradecraft involved pointed to only one plausible explanation, betrayal. No more than betrayal, outright sabotage, but sabotage was impossible because the only person in a position to have access to all of the information necessary to carry out this massacre was....her.

Bill stands before the befuddled M, after witnessing the darkest day in her agency’s proud history, the evil queen of numbers is at a complete loss.

‘M, there is one more item I didn’t want to mention over the open line.’ He paused a moment waiting for her full attention ‘all of the agents had the letter W carved on their right hand.’

‘W!’ she baulked, ‘George W. would never dare such a thing. Not after last time...’ she was lost in thought a moment wondering if they didn’t have it all wrong. That crazy Texan was retired now anyway... wasn’t he?

‘It could be the letter M, the first reports filed probably looked at the mark upside-down. If so it means this attack was deeply personal.’

M eyes shot up in surprise. She had never felt so exposed, so out in the open. If her enemies knew her whereabouts so plainly as to mock her then...suddenly she had the absolute conviction she must return home.

After instructing Bill to examine the bodies on their return she rushed home to find her husband, a tall good humoured man sitting in has favourite chair watching Goldfinger on DVD. She remembered how when she first met him he wanted to be the Minister of Silly Walks. He never truly grew out of it.

‘Ohhh, there you are darling.’ He tenderly kissed her hand as she came close by. ‘Calling it in early tonight?’ has asked.

‘Rough day sweetie, don’t ask’ and she knew he wouldn’t, long ago they had agreed to leave her work at work. ‘What’s that smell? Cannabis?!’

‘Just a little. For my glaucoma you know. ‘

‘You don’t have glaucoma.’

‘Precisely’ he said.

Something wasn’t adding up.

‘Where did you get weed?’ She asked cautiously.

‘Oh, don’t be mad, the boys stopped by and I’m afraid we had a bit of a smoke.’

‘The boys?’

‘The grandchildren dear,’ he chuckled ‘I was working in the garden, you know trimming the verge, and they stopped by, well, one thing led to another.’

‘You didn’t let them in did you?’ she asked becoming increasingly more alarmed knowing their grandchildren were on vacation in Australia. He used to be her Black Knight stopping all with a “None shall pass”. Or was that her Lancelot not wasting time arguing about “Who killed who”. Had he truly let four strangers in their house willy nilly.

‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t have, not without their mother stopping by as well, but, you see, they had something to give you.’

‘Something to give me?’ she repeated

‘Yes, upstairs on the dresser.’

She didn’t wait for him to finish she was up the stars in a flash. The moments panic gave way to cooler heads as she found less and less to be alarmed about. Her personal safe was secure, contents untouched. As was her laptop. A scary thought hit her, she rushed to her underwear drawer quickly rummaging though it. GONE! The odd two hundred quid she kept hidden there along with the highest secrets of the kingdom. That is when she saw it, the gift. A pair of beautifully handcrafted wooden picture frames. The frames folded inward so she took care as she opened each, M’s heart nearly stopped, a cold chill ran though her body. Inside were black and white pictures of people she hadn’t given a thought to in over thirty years. Pictures of happier times, two beautiful couples, the Bonds and the Silvas smiled serenely at her, untouched by the cruel march of time. Barbara Mawdsley was in utter despair, her life’s work was in ruins, the worst mistakes of her life thrown back in her face, completely numb she sank to the floor.

Bill Tanner was forty minutes away at an airfield with the unenviable task of identifying the bodies killed in that mornings failed exercise. He’d get a DNA swab from their mouth, check the finger prints electronically then move on to the next after a brief silent prayer. He saved the worst for last, the sight of agent 7 was just so tragic Bill took a moment to reflect. Maybe it was because he had witnessed her death live on the video feed or maybe it was because as the newest agent she hardly had the chance to prove herself. With the blue tint on her lips should could be just sleeping like a princess in a fairy story except in this case covered in ice. Just then her eyes shoot open.

‘Bill?’ she weakly cried.

Bill got over his shock quickly going to help her.

‘Eve! What happened?’

‘Oh, Bill we were blown, blown, blown! Never had a chance.’ Eve’s voice chattering in the cold.

‘Who did this?

‘No,no, no, idea.’ She chattered ‘But I don’t think we were even the main event. I doubt they put much effort in.’

She held up her injured hand, now bandaged, blood showing the pattern of the cut ‘Look what they did to me!’ She started to sob.

Bill gently helps her out of the body bag, tending her wounds then wrapping her in a blanket taken from the emergency supplies of the plane.

‘Looks like the parachute rigging took the worst of it. A slight grazing wound. You were lucky. Come on dear heart we have to get you back. But you have to tell me everything.’

He carefully guided her to the passenger seat of his silver Jaguar XJ-L, he set the individual temperature zone to the highest temperature for her, then jumped around and set the powerful supercharged motor to work.

Eve told her story as she slowly warmed. She said it was as if the curtain was thrown back on MI6, as if the baddies were just handed the information to whoever wanted it. The attackers she said were mix of nationalities, possible each agent was targeted by someone they had been sent against. Since she was new she may have gotten the lucky hand. She then described how the she had tried to evade the ambush, got caught in the tree and before she could free herself she felt the sharp impact of two blows. She described the horror of playing dead while the man carved her hand. She went on to relate the story of how she cut herself free, managed to follow the kill squads for a little bit and eventually found a real constable to help, this was a major point since so many uniforms were around and the killers she followed all wore a uniform as not to be noticed. She knew the constable was the real deal because he moved like he was familiar with walking a beat, she waylaid the young man managed to convince him of her plight and he was more than willing to help once he understood what was at stake. The young man and a mate, a lad who went though the academy at the same time, they got the body bag, called it in, then loader her on to the plane with the others.

d**n and blast thought Bill Tanner, our security is so thoroughly compromised. For the first time in his life he wonders whether or not he should call M or go above her head.

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

M looked at her watch. It was 38 seconds since the last time she had glanced at the timepiece.

Bill Tanner sat next to her in the waiting room to the Prime Minister's office. The chief of staff was silent, staring ahead. Finally the intercom of the PM's secretary buzzed.

"Yes, sir?"

"Send them in."

The secretary gestured to M and Tanner to proceed into the entryway to the Prime Minister's office. On the other side, stood a tall, balding man in a three-piece suit. M frowned as she approached him.

"Sir Gareth?" she asked. "Sir Gareth Mallory? What are you doing here?"

"The PM asked me to be part of this meeting. Please come this way."

Mallory led M and Tanner to a conference area that was part of the PM's office suite. At the table, the PM sat along with a brunette woman that M also recognized. Claire Dowar, one of the PM's closest allies in Parliament..

The PM cleared his throat. "Sit down." No pleasantries.

M and Tanner took their seats as did Mallory.

"What in bloody hell happened at Gilbraltar?" the PM began. "In all the history of MI6 nothing remotely like this has ever taken place. This is worse than the spy scandals of the 1950s! We are being perceived by our allies, the bloody Americans in particular, as weak and unable to defend ourselves."

"We are still investigating..." M began.

The PM cut her off. "That's not good enough." His voice was cold.

"It has been less than 48 hours."

"Forty-three hours and seventeen minutes, to be precise," Mallory said. "Forty-three hours and seventeen minutes since all but one of our 00 agents were wiped out. Supposedly the best and most capable field operatives we have, snuffed out."

"I am perfectly aware of the situation," M shot back.

"Have you identified the mole?" the Prime Minister asked.

"We are still establishing the facts."

Claire Dowar's face reddened. "Obviously, there was the most greveous security breach," she said. "Our cousins at Langley are openly wondering if we've compromised their Agency operatives. I can't say I blame them. There has to be a mole."

M began to protest but the Prime Minister spoke up again. "You have a fortnight, at most," he said. "By that, I mean, in one fortnight's time this entire situation must be put at rest -- or else we shall have to name a new head of your department. I don't know why I'm being that generous, but if you can actually resolve this matter that would be the best outcome.

Tanner's eyes darted between M and Mallory. He sensed something else was coming.

"Concurrently, I have requested Sir Miles of the Ministry of Defence to work with you in investigating this matter. He will report directly to me. Is that understood?"

"This is unprecedented," M protested.

"It's either that or you can tender your resignation right now," the Prime Minister said.

M frowned. "Yes, sir. We will work with Sir Gareth as you instruct."

"Best not to waste any more time then," the PM said, ending the meeting.

A few minutes later, M and Tanner were entering M's office.

"I can't work like this," M said as she sat down behind the desk. "I need an edge."

"An edge?" Tanner asked, still standing.

"Yes," M replied. "Where is Bond?"

"Bond?"

"Yes, Bond!"

"I didn't think you trusted him any more. He resigned."

"I'm quite aware of his departure, Mr. Tanner," she said testily. "Where is Bond?"

"He is...." Tanner paused. "Working for a chicken farmer, ma'am."

"A chicken farmer?"

"Yes."

M shook her head. "How soon will our surviving operative be out of the hospital?"

"She may be released tomorrow but she'll need a few days..."

"We don't have a few days!" M said, her voice terse. "Have her bring 007 back into the fold tomorrow. Provide her with any back-up necessary but by this time tomorrow, I want Bond back in the fold. He's going to be my blunt instrument."

Tanner felt himself go white. The woman was desperate, he thought.

His facial expression didn't betray what he was feeling inside. "Yes, ma'am," he said. He turned and swiftly exited the office.

Eve’s Bentley Continental GT with Speedline Racing alloy rims coasted silently up the chicken farmers driveway. After a brief check at the produce stand she went about the business of locating Bond. The night before Bill Tanner was still ashen faced when he came to see her at the London Bridge Hospital. A new mission was fine with her unlike some agents she was adverse to time spent out of action, even if medically sanctioned, she was eager to get back to the job. But Bill Tanner had stressed she was not to mention anything beyond her first name, nothing about her rank, her job, or the situation at MI6. She got the distinct impression this James Bond was not to be trusted, so why then was she seeking him out she wondered. Was there something between M and the former 007 not in the files? As part of her assignment Eve was given access to all the inactive 00 folders at MI6, five 00 agents against all odds had reached the mandatory retirement age of 45. Each of the former 00's were now living comfortably in retirement after their years of honourable service to her Majesty.

Only one man had the notable distinction and undying shame of quitting; James Tyrone Bond. According to the information available to her his resignation had raised quite a stink at the home office. Word was he was a rogue agent, a loose cannon who botched more than one mission in a very public manner. His latest public failure before his (some think forced) resignation was the “premature” detonation of a pharmaceutical magnate’s mansion. The man’s only crime Bond later admitted was he happened to have the last name of Escobar. The rest of Bond’s file was very thin, he only had a few kills under his belt and was still a relative green horn to the game of espionage when he walked away. Although Eve wouldn’t know it her service folder a mere few months old was twice as thick as Bond’s four year record.

After walking to where she was told to go Eve didn’t see Bond anywhere, just a depressed old man rinsing s**t off the chicken coop walkway. She walked back to the produce stand asking once again where Bond was to be found, the small Albanian told her was indeed out back.

‘Look for the guy in the loud shirt and acid washed Levi’s 524 Junior Skinny (R) jeans two sizes too small for him’ he said.

She went back and approached the man she saw earlier, he appeared lost to his work. His beard was gray as was his hair; the buzz cut didn’t help the impression of Army pensioner who now lived only for his gardening.

‘Excuse me’ she said in a slight girlish voice ‘can you direct me to the Strangeways?’

She handed Bond her smart phone for him to indicate on the phone’s map were to go. Bond turned off the garden hose with the help from the True Value 4-Inch Brass Twist Hose Nozzle. Reluctantly he accepted the “wizard box” from the young ladies hand. Bond glanced at the phone for moment with the look of a confused circus chimp. They put maps on phones? He thought.

Without even looking at the display he handed it back saying, ‘No, sorry you must have missed your turn. Go back aways then take the left instead of the right.’

The phone chirped in her hand confirming biometrically Bond’s identity. Astonished she looked at him, he looks at least sixty years of age, certainly not the thirty-six he was supposed to be. She spoke up using her natural husky yet feminine voice.

‘Excuse me Mr. Bond, I hate to bother you with this. A mutual acquaintance, Aunt “Em” asked me to check on you.’

He looked back dumbly, his tortured blue eyes blinked slowly like those of a diseased cow.

‘Er... I’m sorry my aunt’s named Charmian. And she certainly would not be sending anyone inquiring after me.’

Now it was Eve’s turn to blink stupidly, how on earth could this Cro-Magnon throw back have completely forgotten the MI6 pass phrases is such a short time!?!

‘You are not following me’ she spoke slowly using hand gestures to communicate. ‘I need, your help, our Aunt “EEMMMM” has a situation where your expertise is required.’

A dim bulb in his tortured soulless eyes clicks on. Oh “M”.

‘No.’ He said dull and flat.

‘No?’

‘That part of my life is over.’ taking a haughty tone, ‘I cannot go back to being a tool of evil for a clueless puppet of the puppet state. All politicians are f**king back-stabbing shitheads.’ He shook his head at her dismissively as if to say what a young fool.

Eve’s temper flared, this muppet was going to give her a hard time! She couldn’t believe it!

‘Look here mate!’

‘Do yourself a favour’ he interrupted, ‘get out while you still can. There is no honour in what you are doing. The CIA is in bed with evil, we’re no better. It’s a miserable existence. I should know I lost my soul to it. There is nothing left to believe in.’ He looked at her pensively.

Eve was two steps away from strangling this SAS chimp with the garden hose. Instead she reached in to trouser pocket withdrawing the official document she had the foresight to print out.

‘Look here Bobo!’ she held up the official order ‘you’re still liable to active duty recall. Yes? Guess what...You’ve been recalled! Get your arse in the car or I swear to god I’ll shoot you then stuff you in the trunk.’

‘Oh’ is all he had to say. He followed Eve compliantly to her Bentley and travelled the rest of the way to M’s office in silent contemplation. His only act of defiance was to not wear a seat belt and push his lips out in an angry manner. Slowly his reservations began to melt away for M to call on him the situation must indeed be dire, last time he saw her she said she couldn’t trust him what had happened to change all of that?

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

James Bond rubbed his bearded face as Eve drove the Bentley. Since resigning from MI6, Bond had done as much as possible to distance himself from his former life. So he had quit shaving. After all these weeks, the beard finally...well, looked like a beard.

He also felt thirsty. In his former life, he might have longed for a vodka martini, perhaps a double bourbon on the rocks or a whisky and solda. But no more. Since leaving MI6, he consumed Heineken (R) on a regular basis.

Bond stared blankly for the rest of the drive until a few minutes before approaching the back entrance to MI6 headquarters. Finally, Eve parked the car. Waiting there was Bill Tanner along with two plainclothes guards with massive shoulders, both a good four or five inches taller than Bond.

"Welcome home," Tanner said to Bond.

Bond stared blankly. Tanner motioned for the others to follow him. Bond and Eve were immediately behind him. Suddenly, memories flooded into Bond's mind, of all the times he had been in this building, as well as the woman he was about to see again.

A few minutes later, Tanner led the group into M's office. M motioned for the former 00 to sit in the chair opposite her desk. The others remained standing.

"It's good to see you again, Bond."

"What is this all about?" Bond asked. "Did somebody lose a dog?"

M's face reddened. "I knew I couldn't trust you..."

"I couldn't trust you, first," Bond shot back.

"That's not true!" M said. "I didn't trust *you* first."

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Bond said.

"Bloody right," M said. "I have a fortnight to resolve the worst mass killing of 00 agents in the history of MI6. I need a blunt instrument, one who has been a way for a while. You fit the bill."

"Bill?" Bond said, looking at Tanner. "How do I fit him?"

M rolled her eyes. "It's a figure of speech...Oh, never mind!"

Just then, one of the three telephones on her desk buzzed. It was the private line. M hesitated before picking up the receiver.

"Yes?" M asked. No pleasantries were uttered. M made no other reply for long minutes before finally saying, "Shanghai? You're quite sure?"

More silence. "I understand," she said. M then put the receiver down.

"It appears you're going to be taking a quick trip to Shanghai," M said to Bond. She glanced at Eve. "You can accompany him, I assume."

"Of course, ma'am," Eve replied.

"I haven't had a chance to pack!" Bond protested.

"I think we can round you up a carryon bag with some clothes," M said. "Tanner, take these two to the airport, ASAP. Then return here promptly. We still have much to do."

Tanner felt the sense of puzzlement wash over him. But he knew better than to protest. "Yes, ma'am."

James Bond, with two Heinekens (R) already inside him, nursed another on the flight to Shanghai.

This was the last thing he wanted, dammit. He had wanted to separate himself from his former life. That's why he had settled on the chicken farm. That's why he had given up liquor. He wanted to build a wall around the past life. But the past life had reached back and pulled him back in.

"Are you all right?"

It was Eve. Bond glanced at the woman agent for a moment and then looked at back at the top of the beer. He could see the reflection of a bearded man in the beer. He didn't like what he saw. It was the face of a man who had done too much, seen too much.

"Smooth, with no aftertaste," Bond said.

Eve shook her head. "I didn't mean the beer," she said. "I meant are you doing all right?"

"Fine," Bond replied.

Eve frowned then reclined the seat. "All right," she said. "I'm going to get some sleep now. This is going to be a long flight."

"Good night," Bond said, still staring into the beer.

Bond held the glass tightly. He felt if he let go, his new life would disappear entirely. Plus, just what was he supposed to do in Shanghai, anyway? Never had he been sent on a mission with so little preparation. In his former life, at least he had a target. At this point, there was no target. He didn't even know where to look for the target. What was M was up to? He had never seen M so unsure of herself.

Bond tried to grasp the glass even tighter. By now, however, the outside of the glass was slick. It was like trying to grasp a banana peel. Just then, the glass slipped out of his hand, spilling the Heineken (R) on his pants and his feet.

Bond softly spat out an obscenity. Eve, laying in the reclined seat, began to stir.

"What's the matter?" she asked groggily.

"Nothing," Bond said softly. "Go back to sleep."

A flight attendant came up with a small towel. She kneeled and dabbed at Bond's feet, reaching down and picking up the glass.

"At least it's not broken," the flight attendant said as she stood up. "Would you like another, sir?"

Bond felt himself go rigid. His new life was now entirely gone, except for the damp remnant on his trouser leg near his feet.

After three Smirnoff ® martinis Bond slept the sweet sleep only committed drunks truly know. The recipe for the drink Bond recalled from a cheap spy novel he had once read. He threw the book away as soon as he finished it, before throwing it away he had torn the cover off the book while he was reading it to test how throwing the book away would feel. If Bond were to ever recollect the experience he would have to admit tossing the defaced book in the rubbish bin felt pretty damned good. A trained psychologist might wonder if this is where Bond got his predilection for throwing what should be treasured objects in dumpsters.

The Value Jet flight began its approach to Shanghai, Bond began to stir not because he had somehow sensed the changes in the flight. Rather it was the cold dampness at the cuff of his pant leg that alarmed him. He startled awake concerned he might have pissed himself in another drunken stupor.

‘Don’t touch my stuff!’ he shouted hoarsely snapping to wakefulness in the dimly lit airliner, most of the other passengers fast asleep. After a moments orientation he muttered to himself ‘this isn’t the YMCA.....’

As the grogginess of sleep left Bond recalled where he was and why he was there. A tingle went down his spine. A mission! He thought excitedly, perhaps a chance to shag an exotic foreign bird while he was at it. The less they understood English the better.Inside Bond was a giddy as a schoolgirl, outside his dower continence looked as shaggy and glum as ever. This was the disparity Bond had seen reflected in the green glass of the Heineken® bottle. In Bond’s heart he knew this giddy feeling wouldn’t last, soon would come the killing, then the denials, the accusations, overstepping of authority, reprimands, jurisdictional pissing contests, and eventually going rogue, it always did.

The air steward seeing Bond awake asked him if he’d like something for breakfast before they landed in half an hour.

She nodded politely and went off to fulfil his order. She retuned five minutes later with his breakfast tray leaving it with him. Bond lifted the cover to find a reheated egg McMuffin some stale hash brown next to a pair of forlorn looking flapjacks. Full house, he thought grimly. A second later Bond frowned hard; the straw to puncture the tinfoil lid of his OJ was nowhere to be found.

Breakfast had done the trick, giving Bond the energy he needs to get on with his day. After the plane had touched down but before it had reached the gate he unfasten his seatbelt excused himself from Eve’s company (who had woken up fully refreshed only ten minutes prior), and made his way to the front of the plain he ignored instructions to return to his seat. He was about the Queens business d**n it! He'd take no guff today.

A petite air stewardess approached Bond from behind gently taping him on his shoulder.

‘Sir, I am going to have to ask you to return to your seat.’

Bond with lighting reflexes and frenetic fighting style gripped the poor girl’s hand that had briefly touched his shoulder spinning her around to face him.

‘That depends on your definition of “safe sex”’ he said to her blithely.

The poor girl was frightened witless, is this maniac going to kill her she wondered wildly looking into his crazed berserker eyes, she valiantly fought back a stream of tears from the searing pain of a broken wrist. Bond slammed the young woman’s body against the lavatory door stunning her, he then proceeded to pound her forehead relentless against the door until she lost all consciousness. Seeing the young girl was out cold Bond deftly pulled her away from the door, opened it, giving her a shove he shut the door behind. As the unconscious body slipped down against the door the indicator went from empty to occupied. Bond smiled big showing all the creases his craggy face had to offer.

Bond continued his stampede until he got to the exit at the front of the plane, there he found his way blocked by an elderly couple and the two stewardesses helping them. Unaware of what had happened to their colleague they ignored the tiny man hulking up to them. No time to talk Bond kick the back of the frail old ninety year old man’s leg collapsing it in, the man screamed as he fell, Bond snatched a cane from old man’s hand cuffing him with it neatly at the back of the skull knocking the old war veteran out. Before the stewardess could utter a single word of surprise in one fluid motion he dropped the cane and slugged each of them hard, putting all his weight behind the punches he sent each in turn spinning to the ground unconscious. Only the old woman in the wheelchair remained between Bond and his goal. A dangerous place to be Grandma he thought. He snatched the oxygen mask off the old ladies face, then gave her a round house kick for good measure.No longer deterred from his goal Bond released the emergency latch on the door swinging it wide. Pausing only to take hit from grandma's hissing air mask Bond leapt out of the still moving plane like a badger. He recalled his SAS parachute training remembering to tuck and roll as he hit the tarmac. Upon hitting the ground he was up like a shot running across the airfield as fast as his stubby legs would take him. My good he though India’s airport looks just like Heathrow! Even to the buildings silhouetted in early morning the background. Wouldn’t it be a laugh if M sent us on plane ride to only circle for 12 hours before landing where we started from. He chuckled to himself as he ran, he indeed did know the layout, it was just like Heathrow. And he knew it well after all he had spent hours running up and down Heathrow and Minami Internationals tarmacs on various occasions, for various reasons, some official, some not.

Two hours later Eve reconnected with Bond. She found him at the luggage claim with a sad constipated look on his face. His melancholy eyes would met hers for a moment before flittering away in despair.

‘There you are, you idiot! Do you now you caused a bleeding security incident! They shut the airport down and had to hall off half a dozen people off to the hospital because of you!’

Bond glumly nodded, he had watched the ambulances tearing to and fro.

‘What the hell is wrong with you then? You were all piss and vinegar when you jumped out of the plane.‘

Bond’s dull monotone voice responded ‘I thought we were going to India. I told everyone on facebook I was going there.‘ A sad glint came to his eye.

‘Bond, M told us we were to go to Shanghai? Where the hell do you think that is?’

‘I know Shanghai is located in the glorious peoples' republic of China, I had thought she meant Shanghai India this time.’

‘Come along Bond, we’ve got check in at the hotel before we lose our rooms. We're already late because of you.’

‘I hope they have a clean pool area,’ Bond added as he started to follow, then he remembered the bad news he had to tell her. The reason depression crept back in his life, the loss of his blue trunks.

‘It gets worse.’ He said. ‘they lost our luggage.’

‘Your luggage Bond,’ Eve said motioning to her shoulder bag and other carryon. ‘I told you not to check ‘em. It's called carryon for a reason’

She smiled patiently at him, tuning to leaving the baggage area and flag down a black cab.

‘Come along, Bond!’ she called.

‘But I have no clothes to change into.’ He protested

‘Don’t worry Bond, I’ll buy you a new set at the hotel.’

‘But you don’t know my size.’

‘I had you sized up the first time we met,’ she quipped.

‘Mens small.’ She said with a wink.

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

By the time Bond and Eve had extracted themselves from the Shanghai airport security personnel -- a process that required enduring many questions and listening to some exasperated officials raise their voices -- night had fallen.

China's dual personality was represented by two of its most prominent cities. Beijing, the capital, is buttoned-down, a city of orderly process and, for many Westerners, dreary dull. Not so Shanghai, a center of commerce. Not as wide open as the former British colony of Hong Kong, Shanghai nevertheless is more boisterous and energetic than Beijing. The symbol of that energy is the purple neon-lit highways of the sprawling metropolis.

None of this meant anything to Bond. He merely stared ahead, silently cursing how his former life had again engulfed him. It was the dog-eat-dog world where nobody was to be trusted, where the subject of trust was meaningless. Maybe I should have ordered a Heinken (R) instead of the first martini, he thought. Perhaps I should have fought harder to hold on to my new life.

Bond shook his head. The die was cast. There was no more time for regrets.

A half-hour later, Bond and Eve arrived at their hotel, part of one of the many office towers that extended into the night sky of Shanghai. The agents proceeded to the front desk, not saying anything to each other. As they approached the check-in station, the clerk raised his eyebrows.

"May I help you?"

"My name is Eve," the agent said, who muttered her surname so softly that Bond couldn't make it out. "This is Mr. Bond."

"Mr. Bond?" the clerk replied. "I knew a Mr. Bond when I worked at a hotel in Hong Kong. Are you any relation?"

Bond shook his head and grunted.

"Are you quite sure?" the clerk asked. "He was English. Perhaps he mentioned me. My name is Chang and I --"

"Do I look like I give a d**n?" Bond asked.

Chang frowned. "No, I suppose not," he said, with a hint of annoyance in his voice. He reached under the desk and handed Eve a large envelope.

"This is from your Aunt EM-ily," Chang said, emphasizing the first syllable of the name. "She requested the favor of a special delivery."

Bond couldn't contain himself. "Who the bloody hell is this Aunt Emily person..." Before he could finish the sentence, Eve kicked him in the shin.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Chang," Eve said. "Your assistance is very much appreciated."

Chang glanced over at Bond for a moment before addressing Eve again. "You are quite welcome."

Eve took the envelope and headed to the elevators without waiting for Bond. He waited for a moment before moving to catch up to her.

"What is this all about?" Bond asked testily. "Aren't you going to open that envelope?"

Eve bit her lip. "I'll open it in my hotel room," she said. "I suggest we freshen up and clean up. Let's meet in the hotel bar in about an hour."

Bond grimaced and said nothing. When they reached their floor, the agents peeled off in opposite directions, neither saying anything to the other. Bond, upon entering the room, tossed the small carryon bag on the bed. He then stripped and proceeded to the bathroom. He walked to the shower and turned the water on full blast and hot. He paused for a moment and stepped inside. Almost he immediately yelled as the hot water scalded at his skin. He quickly turned the hot water off, so only cold water was coming out of the showerhead. He yelped again, hurriedly trying to find a balance. Bond couldn't remember where he had read that a scalding hot shower followed by a cold shower was invigorating. He managed to make the water merely warm, lathered up and rinsed off.

After drying himself off, Bond, still naked got under the sheets of the bed. Over the years, he had trained himself so he could fall asleep yet be able to awaken at a precise time, without the aid of an alarm clock. As soon as he laid his head on the cool pillow, he was out.

Ninety minutes later, Bond was awakened by the ringing telephone. Bond groggily picked up the receiver.

"Huh?" Bond said.

"Bond where are you?" It was Eve. Her voice had a hint of anger.

"I...was resting until later."

"I said an hour," she replied. "It's been half again as long." She paused. "Never mind. Just get up here as soon as you can, will you?"

Bond looked at the receiver. What he wanted to tell her was considerably different than what he uttered. "I'll be right up."

Bond decided he wasn't going to hurry himself for this pushy, young upstart. He began to comb his hair but stopped when he realized it was so short that he couldn't comb it. Bond then shaved and brushed his teeth, glancing in the mirror at his muscled torso.

Thirty-five minutes later, Bond, wearing a conservative jacket and tie, entered the bar. He only made it a few steps when he froze. Behind the bar, there was a refrigerator, with transparent glass walls and a glass door. It was full of Heineken (R). Nothing but Heineken (R). Bond's stomach began to ache. It was as if he were being mocked about his futile effort to escape the dark world of espionage.

The agent looked away, briefly looking at the brightly lit skyscrapers of Shanghai. He then turned in the opposite direction, spotting Eve sitting by herself in the corner. To hell with appearances, Bond thought. He'd been given no cover. This entire operation was so slap-dash there was no point to trying to make this look like a casual encounter. So, his briskly walked up to the table and sat down opposite Eve.

Across the way from the dim room where Bond and Agent Eve sat in the green glow of the Heineken® display, a posh hotel room blared into being. The dark mirrored surface reflecting the soul of Shanghai was transformed into a voyeurs dream. On bright displayed was a shapely young woman in a formfitting black dress, she surveyed the room, finding it to her approval she gave a signal to two body guards, who in turn acknowledged the unspoken command by leaving. Alone she kicked off her five inch heeled Prada® shoes and began the process of disrobing. She left the main room to the master bedroom changing into something more comfortably revealing. Cloaked in a sheer silk robe she returned to the main room dimming the lights and collapsing on the lush Lane leather sectional with her sixty-four gigabyte iPad Three ®. The light from the iPad’s patented Retina Display bathed the fine porcelain features her face in angelic light.

Thinking poorly of their voyeurism Eve joked, ‘That’s why I always close the bloody drapes!’

Eve glanced over to Bond hoping to see some semblance of mirth. To her dismay Bond was gazing away dumbly unaware of the rest of the world. She caught what held Bond attention so, it wasn’t the scantily clad vixen across the way, Bond was reflecting inwardly trapped by the shadowy reflection of his scruffy self. She didn’t have to guess what the old broken down agent was thinking; This is a metaphor for my soul. Deciding to ignore Bond she retrieved her MacBook Pro® from her carryall, it was time to check in with headquarters anyhow.

She didn’t have long to wait between the recording setting boot time of the Apple and T-Mobiles blazing fast 4G she had the mission package in practically no time at all. Taking to the task at hand Eve began to immerse herself into the life of this Severine M sent them after. She studied all the data hoping to find a way to compromise this girl in short order. It would be a difficult task since Severine would certainly be on the alert. Oddly enough a Facebook entry by Severine minutes prior provided the answer. The irony having watched her post the answer to Eve’s problem couldn’t be escaped.

The Facebook entry read:

In Shanghai BITCHES!!! X-I-10 to be here!So sad to be a SWF in such a romantic city. Raoul broke my heart! Think I will go to the speed dating event tomorrow night 7 P.M. at The Peninsula Shanghai Hotel next door.

A semblance of a plan began to form in Eve mind’s eye. But what of the tools she brought for the job? She glanced at shaggy Bond PI. She’d have to get the old war horse back on his feet and she had an inkling of how to do this. Taking Bond by the hand she lead him back to his room, wordlessly he followed instinctively understanding what was to happen.

Alone with Bond she started by kissing him, she paused feeling some hesitation on Bond’s part.

‘What’s wrong?’ she inquired.

‘We are equals right?’

‘No. I’m your bloody superior and you will d**n well do as you are told!’ she said coyly.

‘Isn’t this sexual harassment? M is always saying I should wear a dress to understand.....’

Bond didn’t get a chance to say the rest of it, Eve smothered the words way with her kisses. Bond fondled her clumsily like a schoolboy smitten with a maid at his boarding school. Finally she had enough and shoved Bond back on to the bed, gathering the contents of Bond’s shaving kit she lathered his face with Gillette Fusion ProGlide Shave Gel®, and with the Gillette Fusion ProGlide Razor® she gave Bond the smoothest, closest shave of his life.

"Those were the days when we still associated Bond with suave, old school actors such as Sean Connery and Roger Moore," "Daniel didn't have a hint of suave about him," - Patsy Palmer

M, Bill Tanner and her two bodyguards approached the London restaurant.

"All right, you hang back here while I go in," M said.

The Chief of Staff frowned. "But ma'am, the security detail should be closer than..."

M cut him off. "If I want your opinion, Mr. Tanner, I shall ask for it. That is all."

Tanner fought off the temptation to frown or show any reaction. "Yes, ma'am."

M didn't answer and instead walked straight inside. Tanner nodded at the bodyguards, who took up positions at opposite ends of the block. Tanner, in the interim, began to pace between the bodyguards. What the bloody hell is she up to? Tanner wondered to himself. They were all playing for high stakes now. The deadline to resolve the botched operation. The 00 section in tatters. The vultures circling. His fate, hers, the whole service now rode on an operative who had recently quit and seemed ready for pasture. What was with that muttering about Heineken (R) for crying out loud, Tanner thought to himself. This is the man we're all depending on? Even Tanner didn't know what Eve and Bond were supposed to be doing in Shanghai.

While Tanner pondered the future, M had been shown to a table. There, sat a chunky man of 80 years old. His hair -- and he had a full head of it -- was pure white. The face,once been ruggedly handsome, had been softened by age, once firm chine line gone a bit jowly. But as he looked up at her, M could see the eyes were alive. Yes, this was someone whose intellect was as sharp as ever.

"Ah, lass," the man said as stood up. He spoke in a heavy Scots accent. "You didn't disappoint your old friend Chester Kincaid."

M's face tightened. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't broadcast your presence so loudly," she said, speaking in little above a whisper.

Kincaid smiled. "Of course, lassie," he said as he sat back down.

"By the way," M replied as she took her seat at the table, "if you're attempting to play mind games with that over-the-top Scottish accent, please think again. It won't work on me."

"Aye," Kincaid said. "That be right. I wasn' using this accent that one night at ...."

"That's enough," M said firmly.

"Ah, but I didn' think that mind games could get to," Kincaid said, dropping the "t" from didn't. "Now what did they call you at one point...aye, the Evil Queen of Numbers."

"So why did you request this meeting? It's a rather long drive down from Scotland."

"I need to know, personally, how your agents are doing in Shanghai."

M frowned. "That's covered under the Official Secrets Act," she said. "You should know that better than anyone."

Kincaid resumed speaking with the Scottish accent. "Aye," he said. "At one time, I could have been the head of MI6. But I was aced out by the young lassie in the Analysis Section, even though she requested my help in devising the operation that brought down Luis Silva. I filled in the numerous gaps in the information the Analysis Section had. I was, after all, the one who had turned up the connection with Thomas Bond and Luis Silva. Yet somehow, you managed to get all the credit."

"That is all a matter of interpretation of a matter 33 years in the past," M replied.

"Aye," Kincaid said. "Except Raoul Silva, the son of said Luis Silva, is not a matter of interpretation. He is a living, breathing man, one of enormous power and influence and....how shall I put it...motivation to revisit those 33-year-old events."

"My people are in Shanghai," M replied. "I shouldn't even tell you that much. Consider that a matter of professional courtesy, nothing more."

Kincaid began to laugh. "It has been said of you that you have the balls to send a man to die and I believe it," he finally said after he stopped laughing. "I provided you the Shanghai lead, yet you have the gall to still act high and mighty. Old Sir Miles would surely be shaking his head if he had discovered the full truth about your operation."

"Old Sir Miles has been dead a very long time," M said.

"Aye. But I haven' any interest in joinin' 'im," Kincaid said, the Scots accent now being laid on thick. "I still have me contacts. Raoul Silva is planning to move soon. Even if hasn't figgurd everythin' out, he is more dangerous to you, me and your whole bloody department. That incident that wiped out your 00s was just a demonstration."

M's face reddened. "What else..."

It was Kincaid's turn to cut her off. "If I had all the answers I wouldn' be talkin' to you," he said. Kincaid looked off to the side. He began speaking again, once more without the accent. "For a one-night stand, it was rather enjoyable. Too bad, I let it cloud my judgment. I should never have gotten involved with your little operation." He paused before he spoke again. "I hope your people are good, M. Judgment Day is approaching."

M stared at Kincaid as he got up from the table. "I had been looking forward to lunch, but somehow I'm not hungry. In fact, I think I should retreat back to Scotland, just in case your people in Shanghai aren't as good as you think they are. If Judgment Day is coming, I'd rather race it on my home territory." Kincaid didn't wait for a response before he walked away.

M stared off into space when the waited arrived. "Is the gentleman not staying?"

"No," M replied. "Please bring me a double bourbon while I look at the menu."

"Are you sure?" the waiter asked. "We have a special today on Heineken (R)."

"A double bourbon if you please," M said tersely.

As the waiter scurried away, M thought to herself: I've always done my best thinking with a bourbon.

Bond admired himself in the mirror, the tuxedo Chang provided from the lost and found was a perfect fit. The Canadian hockey player who accidently left it behind had good taste. It was Bond’s face that lost him now, beard free he didn’t remember looking so old. In his mind he remembered quite clearly that he resembles Cary Grant but the tired old togger before him really challenged this reality.

‘Hoagy Charmichal my arse.’ he said to the mirror wondering if it was too late for botox.

Bond fidgeted with the bowtie and shirt buttons as he walked down to the lobby to met Eve. Eve subconsciously shuttered when she saw Bond approaching her. Silently wondering if Vladimir Putin needed a body double.

‘Well you clean up nice’ she complemented him.

‘So how does this work?’ Bond said wanting to go over the plan again.

‘You have five minutes to make conversation with each...’ she paused then said, “lady” because “trollop” would have sounded too indelicate even to own her ears ‘before the next arrives. Now remember you have to turn on the charm for Severine, she has to choose you and if there is a fight for your attentions she might turn her attention to lower hanging fruit.’

‘So be the lowest.’

‘But not too low.’ she cautioned

‘So why is this Severine bird so important?’

‘She is paramour to the principle who M thinks is behind the attack on Mi6’

‘Who’s that?’ he asked

‘You’d have to ask her. But the plan is to get an embarrassing sex tape of Severine to essentially blackmail her into helping us.’

‘I don’t know if I can do it.’

‘Just lie back and think of England’ she said with a smile as they tuned the corner to the auditorium.

Bond stopped short his blood running cold. The Banner over the door said “Welcome to the Heineken® International Speed Dating Extravaganza“

The next few hours were pure hell for Bond, each girl would leave and the next contestant would arrive as would a fresh round of Heineken®, the old bottles removed. What bothered him the most aside for the taunting green bottles were the inane questions from doe-eye dames.‘What’s your favourite book?’ Dunno never read one.

‘What’s your sign?’ Heineken®.‘Are you someone I can take home to mother?’ Huh? What? Ohhhh... Fine, OKEY, I’ll sleep with her too.

‘Are your religious?’ I’m part hitman, part monk and all yours. (dry laugh from Bond followed by the lady nervously taking her leave)

‘How do you feel about committed relationships?’ I’m against them as a rule. Soon as I find myself falling for some girl she offs herself.

‘Favourite fruit?’ Banana.

‘What do you do for fun?’ Think about death.

‘Favourite band?’ Lynyrd Skynyrd.

‘Favourite poem?’ There once was a girl from Nantucket.

Bond finally lost his friendly demeanour when a particularly buxom gal in low cut dress seductively rolled a ice cold Heineken® (fresh with crystal clear drops of cool condensation) across her ample bosom, one way then back again, resting the happy bottle against the middle of her cleavage. She gave Bond a hungry look asking the question “want some?”

‘Oh, f**k off for pity's sake!’ the cool man of action gone. ‘Go on get out of here you god d**n cow!!!’ Bond bellowed sweeping the table clear with his fist. His bottle of Heineken® shattered across the room. Its frothy goodness wasted. The shocked female, whose only crime was to offer a nights companionship left in a hurry taking her Heineken® with her. She dared not waste a drop of it.

The next contestant sat down as the bottles were replaced unaware of the fit Bond threw moments earlier started off on chipper note.

‘Well just let me say my favourite colour is yellow and I find...”

‘Get the f**k out of here!’ ..‘ NOW!’ Bond’s angry eyes burned into her. She did so and the cycle repeated itself over and over. The waiting staff serving Bond’s table no longer bothered to uncap the Heineken.

With a new girl barely sitting down Bond decided to beat her to the punch by starting the conversation.

‘Look lady it’s real simple. Life is s**t!’ Eve observing from the balcony gasped in horror as she saw Severine seated at the table directly behind Bond turned her head listening to Bond.

‘Live to work, s**t to live. It’s a cycle of pain and misery. I don’t know why you women are so f**king determined to get me to drink a Heineken®.’ He reached across the table clasped her hands with his squeezing them, his tone took on a pleading aspect. ‘I’ve just got out of that life. I can’t go back. Not now.’

‘What that f**k do I have to do to get a vodka martini neat with a zest of lemon?!’ Bond pleaded, his eyes full of sorrow.

The busy waiter disengaged himself from Bond’s needy grasp. ‘So sorry. I can’t help you.’ The waiter quickly returned to his station by Heineken® cooler at the bar. Bond slumped away dejected. All was lost. The young woman Bond poured his heart out to slowly pushed away from the table praying for the five minutes to be over soon.

Bond didn’t notice when the five minutes were up or when Severine sat down facing him for the first time. Eve now regretted asking Chang to arrange it so Bond and Severine met up last.

Severine held her hand out to Bond. ‘It’s Bond, James Bond. Right?’

A sexy foreign accent Bond couldn’t quite place saying his name made him look up. Seeing his target stirred Bond out of a deep depression. Bond gently took her hand almost as a gentleman would.

‘I’m Severine’ she said.

‘Yes. I know.’ He said smoothly.

‘What was this you were saying about all life being s**t?’

‘Well you see...’ Bond was stopped short by a ditty dinging out the speaker of his old trusty Sony Ericsson. Bond answered the phone. From across the table Severine could hear the tiny sounds of a deep yet feminine voice reading Bond the riot act.‘Yes.

I know.

Understood.’

Bond hung up the phone looking sheepish.

‘Was that your wife?’ Severine asked.

‘Good lord no! Nothing like that.’

Being a natural chatterbox Severine didn’t wait for Bond to finish his sentences’ she rattled on continuing the conversation at a break neck pace whenever it began to slow.

‘Such an old phone. That’s so cute. Adele’s “Rumour Has it” is your ring tone. I just love Adele.’

‘Yes. Me too.’

‘Wouldn’t it be great if she were here to sing for us? Right now?’

‘Yes, I can’t think of anything I’d love more.’ Bond agreed.

‘What you say about life being s**t, is sooo right on. I mean, my parents tried to name me after a river....and failed’ she look so sad at that moment Bond only wanted to hold her close and offer her what comfort he could.

The waiter seeing this conversation was going to go on alot longer than any of Bond’s other conversations brought two ice cold Heineken® to the table.‘Oh!!! Heinekens!!!! I just love Heineken®!’

The sour look on Bond’s face vanished in an instant.

‘So do I.’ For England James! he thought.

‘But they are not even open.’ She sadly observed, her lips forming a cute little pout.

‘Not a problem,’ Bond said ‘watch this!’

Bond stood up to show off a trick he picked up during his formative years living at the Skyfall council estates. With the flare and skill of a magician Bond popped the top off the beers using his belt buckle, Coyote Ugly style.

'You’re such a manslut.’ she teased taking a Heineken® from Bond. She thistly drank it down.

'Oh, it is soo good.’ She said orgasmicly ‘I have never had a bad one, that is how good Heinekens are.’

After a seconds hesitation Bond took a swig from his bottle. The refreshing flavour cleansed his pallet, each drop slaking his thirst as nothing else on earth could. As the cool beverage worked its way down Bond’s gullet he wondered why he had resisted the siren call of the green bottle so vehemently. He knew then he could no longer fight what he was. And what he needed.

‘So what do you do for work James?’ Severine asked

Bond looking serenely at the green bottle answered her honestly, for he expected she would do the same. It was a hunch he had to play.

‘I am in the employ of Her Majesties Secret Service, right now I am rooting out a nest of f**king spies.’ He looked at her in all seriousness.

She returned the look. Took a dainty sip of her beer and said. 'I just love that movie! So good. So much better than the one with Casino in the title. You know the one where guy cried a lot and got nut slapped. But seriously James your job sounds so dangerous. I think you may not like it when you find what you are looking for. Me I work for a very important man, he sends me here to the world’s biggest PEZ® convention to buy for him the rarest PEZ® dispenser. The "Make A Face" Pez® from the 1970s -- sort of a Mr. Potato Head®, with attachable parts. Quickly taken off the market due to concerns about the swallowing habits of small children, it's now worth $5,000 (in the package). I buy for him the last two in existence. You see its very important to him, his father had bought for him the night before he and Raoul's mother were tragically killed in something that was not an accident at all.’

How she said all this in one breath Bond knew he would die without knowing.

‘He sends two of his guards and metal security briefcase like from a spy movie to look after the dispensers.’ She gestures to the two men in black standing immediately behind her, one with a security case handcuffed to his wrist. Noticing the men for the first time Bond shifts his gaze taking them in.

‘They are former Secret Service, they watch all my movements very closely.’ She said. A lecherous grin followed by a nod from one of the Ray-Ban wearing men confirmed this to be true.

Severine then continued talking hardly needing to pause for breath ‘I am thinking maybe I am giving them the rest of night off and taking you, sad monkey man to bed with me. Come we go back to my place.’

‘Er, sure. I mean why not.’ Bond responded, the four of them had almost left the building when Bond’s cell phone began to sing again. Quickly hitting ignore, knowing how to find the button blind after years of practice Bond remembers his mission.

‘On second thought I have a room here. Let’s go there.’

Severine agrees and the two of them make their way to the room Chang and Eve have prepared for their surveillance. Once in the room Severine shreds Bond’s clothes her long fingernails tearing them off him in rapid succession. She ran her tiny hand across his broad gym sculpted chest, she rest her hand on one of his massive manboobs.

‘You have no hair.’ the sweet sound of her voice couldn’t hide her disappointment. ‘You know a bird will not nest in a barren tree.’ She chided him.

‘Nesting? Is that what we are doing?’ Bond said humorously his wrinkled leathery face struggling to hold a smile.

Severine jumped up and away from Bond excitedly calling out ‘Oh! I know! We turn off all the lights use candles make shag time on bearskin rug! I just love how a real bearskin smells!’

As Bond settled on the rug he wonders if she were tuning off all the lights to avoid looking at his face. He rests his head back closing his eyes, his other senses take over, the smells, the tactile sensation, it reminds him of something. Something repressed in the back of his mind begins to break free.

Severine was a whirlwind of activity her now naked silhouette sashays towards Bond. ‘Oh! I almost forgot my video camera.’ She quickly sets up a high res Sony HDR-CX500V® video camera complete with night vision, standard kit for debutant bad girls.

In the hidden room behind the false mirror recording the proceedings, Eve and Chang exchange a look each thinking the exact same word. “s**t!” M’s prudish cold war thinking didn’t account for the internet age or bad girls.

Camera set up Severine tackled Bond, now starting to whimper. Despite the pleasant company, he was relieving a traumatizing encounter several month earlier with Barbara Latrine the mad woman of Thunderball woods, whom he had sold himself to for the night for a six pack of Heineken®. It wasn’t long before Bond began to cry. He cried and cried and cried. He wept so openly Chang, hidden behind the false mirror, hides his face behind his hands embarrassed for all mankind. Embarrassed for secret servants everywhere they stop and erased their recoding fearing it might get out.

Half hour later Severine deciding it was time to leave locates James fully clothed in the tattered remains of his tuxedo, crying in the shower stall as warm water from the gold plated Price Pfister® shower head pours over him.

‘I have to go now, but I feel bad for you so I will send Jeremy to meet you by the pool here at 3 A.M. He will give you the information you are looking for.’ Almost out the bathroom door she turns to him once more, ‘take care of yourself James.’ Then she was gone. She went back to her place to tweet.

Hours later feeling more composed Bond sat at the edge of the pool in his favourite blue trunks, with the appropriate amount of ass cleavage showing he awaited the rendezvous.

Chang and Eve were monitoring Bond from the main security room, Chang’s phone beeped an alert. Checking his phone Chang utters several Chinese epithets.

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Eve ‘you don’t think they are coming?’

‘No. It’s not that,’ Chang reassures her, ‘we already have eyes on the currier. We’ll know if it’s all good soon enough.’

As Bond left the hotel the next morning, Chang reflected on the irony that China's lack of the Western freedoms that Bond fought so valiantly to protect was currently preventing him from being a laughing stock among the other guests, as only members of the Communist party elite, such as himself, would have access to the video that so amused the rest of the industrialised world.

He was not so lucky once he reached MI6 headquarters back in London. Administrative staff stifled giggles as he walked past, and nobody there seemed able to look him in the eye.

Nobody except M, that is.

"007, what the f**k do you think you were playing at?" she exploded as he walked in, prompting at least two dozen complaints to the BBFC.

"I was keeping the British bottom up", he mumbled in his flat, estuarine tones. "No wait, that's not it. I was attempting re-orbiting...d**n!" He cursed at his inability to deliver a light-hearted knob gag. This never happened to the other fellers.

"Anyway," M continued, "I think you'd better take some unpaid leave of absence before you do any more damage. Now f**k off" (make that three dozen complaints).

Eve looked worried. "Where will you go?", she asked. "I was thinking of paying a visit to my ancestral lodge, Skyfall", he replied."Ancestral lodge? I thought Skyfall was the name of a council estate. At least it was in chapter seventeen.""I know, right. Sometimes my life feels like it's being made up on the hoof by a bunch of fanboys on an internet forum somewhere."

Bond and Eve arrived at King's Cross Station. "So, which platform does the train to Skyfall leave from?" asked Eve."None of these. It's hidden by some holographic technology that a previous M had installed". He took Eve's hand and led her straight through a wall between two platforms. The look of wonder on her face amused him so much, he almost managed a smile. Almost. He thought back to the first time he had been shown the hologram as a boy, led by a KGB agent named Valentin Zukovsky. Bond had met Zukovsky several times in adult life, though he had looked a lot hairier and more intimidating in those days. Ahead of him was a gleaming steam train marked "SKYFALL EXPRESS". As he moved up the platform to board the train, he saw something that chilled him to the bone. Sir Gareth Mallory was there, his bald head gleaming under the station lights, his nostrils snake-like slits. "Ah, Bond", he said in his high, cold voice. "You think you will be safe at Skyfall. We shall see. We shall see."

As the train thundered across the countryside towards Skyfall station, Bond was not expecting anyone to join him and Eve in their compartment. As the door slid open to reveal the figure of M, he attempted to raise his eyebrow in order to register surprise, but gave up when the effort became too much for him. "Wot you want?" he said, suavely.

"I thought I'd head up to Scotland myself, check out some property. I'm only four days away from retirement, you know, so I..." She was stopped mid-sentence by a bullet between the eyes from Bond.

At that point, the door opened again and a spotty-faced youth appeared. "Crisps, chocolate, fizzy drinks, Heineken®?" he squeaked in a cracked, pubescent voice.

"No thank you", Bond grunted.

"Well, how about this?", said the spotty-faced youth. "Now pay attention, 007, this may look like an ordinary Mars bar, but when you press the letter a on the wrapper like so...." A beam of green light shot out and the body of M disappeared into the trash can. "It turns into a molecular compactor, perfect for getting objects into spaces that are too small for them".

There was a grinding sound and smoke came out of Bond's ears. Eventually, he managed to say "Q?"

"That's right. You figured it out in the end", replied Q, in the tone of one congratulating a backwards child on completing a simple task.

"But what happened to the other Q?""Retired. I believe he's now running a hotel in Torquay.""So, what else have you got for me, Q?""This watch. Press this button and it will turn into the exact thing you need when you're facing seemingly impossible odds in the third act. I don't know what that will be exactly, cos it hasn't been written yet.""You're a marvel, Q."

The train squealed to a halt at Skyfall station. Bond got out and started walking up the path that led from the platform to a ramshckle old house in the distance. "Skyfall Lodge", he said to Eve. "Isn't it beautiful?"

They stopped and sniffed the fresh air of the Scottish countryside. All they could hear was birdsong and the skirl of wild haggises in the surrounding fields.

Bond shook his head. Suddenly, reality sank in. He was on a flight back to London. The few conscious passengers were staring at him. He glanced next to him, There was Eve, still sleeping despite his outburst. The passengers ended their staring and just looked ahead.

Bond took a deep breath. He unbuckled the seat belt, arose and began walking to the rest room. It was unoccupied and the agent entered. After relieving himself, he washed his hands. When that task was complete, he proceeded to splash his face with cold water and then wiped it off with a paper towel.

He froze as he saw the glassy eyed, craggy face in the mirror. Bond suddenly felt odd. There was something about the face he was looking at. He couldn't place it. But there was something there that shouldn't be. It was as if the face wasn't that of James Bond. But that was crazy! Other than the shave he had received in Shanghai, there was nothing different.

Bond shook his head again. "It's the life we chose," he muttered to himself. For a moment, he longed for a Heineken (R) before dismissing the thought. No, he was back to drinking martinis and all that represented. Funny how a man's drink defines him, Bond thought to himself. One day you're drinking a martini and you're one man. Later, you're drinking a Heineken (R) and you're somebody else entirely.

The time for reflection was over. Bond figured he was merely woozy after the encounter with Severine in Shanghai. Some kind of fuse had been lit. It was time to figure out just what was going to blow up. Standing here in a rest room wasn't going to bring Bond's former life back. Bond knew he had to see this through, whatever it was.

A few minutes, Bond returned to his seat. A moment later, he was fast asleep. It was a deep slumper, the best Bond had slept in weeks. He didn't awake until he felt his left arm being tugged at.

"Time to wake up," Eve said. "We're making the approach to Heathrow."

Bond stretched, refreshed. Whatever was about to transpire, he was ready for it. At least, as prepared as he could be.

The landing was smooth. As the aircraft taxied, Bond and Eve both reactivated their cell telephones. After a moment, both began to buzz in a peculiar way. Anyone who could hear wouldn't know that. In fact, it was a signal from MI6 -- an emergency signal.